


Silk Stockings, High Heels

by Linpatootie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, John finds out Sherlock's actually kinkier than he is, M/M, PWP, no chinchillas were harmed while writing this fic, no really it's just porn, porn porn porny mcporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John may enjoy the occasional bit of crossdressing. Sherlock finds out, and asks for a demonstration. John's done stupider things for his best friend, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk Stockings, High Heels

**Author's Note:**

> I did a prompt challenge on Tumblr (and was sent a lovely total of seven prompts yay) and one of them was a prompt by the lovely Koigras that asked for 'crossdressing, with Sherlock not being the one doing it'. The thing that came out of the prompt was really a lot longer than a ficlet though and had a fair bit of potential so here I am, turning it into a proper fic-like. It’s ah. Kind of. Dirty.  
> Many thanks to my lovely and wonderful beta Tazigo ♥
> 
> The amazing LadyMac111 did a lovely fanart for this fic ♥ you can find it [here](http://ladymac111.tumblr.com/post/39252639580/final-version-silk-stockings-high-heels-by).

Karen was the one responsible for him figuring all this out about himself.

Karen was a girl he’d dated in university. Not quite the only girl he’d dated (though he’d never admit to the full number) but the one he was with the longest. Foxy thing, bit taller than him, soft brown hair and the prettiest hands he’d seen on a thoracic surgeon-to-be in his life.

Karen, anyway, had insisted on it. Just once. For kicks. It’d be fun, come on John, don’t be so shy, it’s not like she was going to tell anyone, just do it for her.

So she’d made him put on her panties and fucking hell, he’d liked it. They were satin, salmon-coloured, with a bit of a lacy trim round the legs. He’d stared at himself in her mirror, those little fairy lights strung around it offering a rather perfect sort of mood lighting, and marvelled at how it flattered his arse and how weirdly tantalising the fabric looked wrapped across his cock like that. He watched himself grow hard, the fabric soft and smooth on the heated skin of his cock, then fucked Karen silly for the next hour or so and she giggled at him for days and told him to wear them more often if that was the result. 

He still has them, actually, along with three other pairs, some stockings, a set of suspenders, and a red and black striped corset he’d ordered off the internet once in a moment of utter bravery but doesn’t actually wear so much. Initially he told himself he was just doing it for fun, something silly, something different, something his girl liked him to do, but they broke up and he kept doing it, by himself even, and eventually he had to sort of sit himself down and tell himself it was okay to be a little… kinky. A little adventurous. Lots of blokes did it. Most of them not actually gay.

And it doesn’t count as full-out cross-dressing if it doesn’t involve, say, a dress, does it? 

Since Karen he’d told exactly one girl, and she didn’t respond so favourably. He likes to think it wasn’t the cause of them breaking up about a month after, but it certainly didn’t help. He stopped doing it entirely when he enlisted, because it’s incredibly hard to keep secrets when you’re sharing sleeping quarters with at least a dozen bawdy soldiers who will in no way take so kindly to the fact that their medic really got off on wrapping himself in a bit of lace now and then. Although he was barely out his hospital bed before already spending a night asleep in Karen’s old satin panties again, drawing much-needed comfort from old happy memories, he’s never told another living soul again.

It’s hidden now in the cluttered corners of 221B, stashed like treasures in the back of his drawers, hidden under old sweatshirts and thermal undies he has no use for in the English climate. He only gets his pretty things out when he’s truly alone, puts them on, ponders heels ( _no John, that’s taking it too far_ ), has a personal private moment of utterly guilty pleasure and puts them back quickly before either Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson come home and might catch him.

Of course he should have known hiding it away wouldn’t have kept Sherlock from finding out anyway. He might just as well have dolled himself up completely and pranced about the kitchen making breakfast.

“You keep women’s underwear in your drawer,” Sherlock remarks dryly one dreary Friday afternoon, completely out of the blue. They’re just sitting at the table together in comfortable silence, rain tapping against the window and John tapping on his keyboard while Sherlock reads the morning paper, only getting to that just now on behalf of having spent his entire morning dissecting a chinchilla. John thinks it imperative to note the chinchilla was, in fact, already dead upon being brought to their flat, otherwise he’d have brought it right back to wherever the hell Sherlock had gotten it from.

“What,” is all John manages to say as he stares at him, mug of tea raised halfway between the table and his face.  
“At least three pairs of panties, mostly satin from the looks of them, and what I believe to be a corset. I don’t think they were left here by any of your girlfriends, so I may assume they’re actually yours?” The bastard’s not even looking up from his paper, and John has genuinely no idea what to say.

“Well?” Sherlock looks up from his paper now, raising an eyebrow at him.  
“That’s none of your bloody business,” John says, balling his right hand into a fist as he sets the mug down on the table and tells himself it wouldn’t be so nice to chuck it at Sherlock’s head.

“Do you wear them under your regular clothes? Or are they just for special occasions, like masturbatory aids?”  
Jesus. “Sherlock. That’s. That’s genuinely none of your bloody business. Keep out of my things.”  
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, John. A lot of heterosexual men enjoy wearing women’s clothing. I admit, it surprised me to find out you are one of them, but you should not –“  
“Just stop talking now, please. I don’t ask you about your, your weird sexual habits, do I. Leave it, and don’t mention it again.” He grinds his teeth, pushes back from the table and attempts a bit of a flounce out the door, but Sherlock puts down the newspaper and asks him a question that stops him so abruptly he almost trips over the rug.

“Can I see you in them some time?”

John reminds himself to breathe. Turns around. Goggles at his piss-poor excuse of a heterosexual lifemate. Sherlock just sits there, newspaper folder neatly in front of him, hands pressed a bit too firmly against the table top perhaps, waiting for John’s answer.

“Why?” is the obvious response.  
“Curiosity, mostly. Interest. Would it be very problematic for you?”

To put on ladies’ intimates and twirl around the flat so his best friend can ogle him? Yes, yes it would be, John thinks.

“Why on Earth would you be interested in seeing me in lingerie?”  
“Maybe you should ask me about my weird sexual habits after all, John.”

The penny doesn’t as much drop as it thunders down from great heights and thwaps him on his head hard enough to leave a dent in his thick fucking skull. Sherlock wants to see him, because Sherlock wants to… _see_ him. 

“Oh, God.”  
“Not quite. Would you do it?”

John stares at him for what feels like about three days and Sherlock just sits there, waiting, so calm John thinks he might strangle him for it.  
“I need to think about that,” John more or less hears himself say and he wonders why he doesn’t just say no but knows that is because, truly, he needs to think about it.

He already knows this means he’ll probably wind up saying yes. From the looks of it so does Sherlock, and that just pisses him off a bit so he grabs his coat and goes for a long walk.

***

It’s a lot to think about, it turns out. He’s not even sure if Sherlock just wants to have a look or if that was some odd Sherlockian means of propositioning him, but the worst part is that the idea of being propositioned by Sherlock isn’t off-putting to him at all and he wasn’t quite prepared to gain that bit of personal insight just yet.

Sherlock is playing his violin downstairs (past ten PM too, completely breaking their agreement, but John is just too tired to stomp downstairs and give him a piece of his mind). John digs into his drawer and pulls out Karen’s panties. He sits down on his bed and looks down at the soft shimmery things. He rubs his thumbs over the fabric, getting really rather worn by now. He balls them up in his hands, then spreads them out again, gently flattening them on his knees with the palms of his hands. He stares at them for a while, listening to Sherlock playing his music downstairs, and thinks.

***

Sherlock starts giving him these looks over the following couple days. It’s not all the time, not when Sherlock is busy with cases or experiments or things that preoccupy his mind enough to keep him from fantasising about his flatmate in satin knickers, but during those quiet moments when it’s just the two of them, those looks seem to inevitably come John’s way more and more. He can be tuning his violin, or reading a fishing magazine from last month (why a fishing magazine John will never understand, as he’s fairly certain the berk’s never touched a fishing pole in his life) and then suddenly turn to John with this intense, greedy sort of darkness in his eyes.

John has to be confronted with that look a few times before he realises that it’s arousal. 

John’s not quite sure what dusty, generally overlooked corner in his mind palace Sherlock’s randomly stumbling into that inspires a look vaguely suggesting he wants to throw him over his shoulder, carry him off to his bedroom and have his merry way with him, but it doesn’t make John as uncomfortable as he perhaps thinks it should.

He also wonders how often Sherlock had been shooting him that look before without him noticing it at all. That one does make him a bit nervous, actually, but not for the reasons he thinks it ought to be making him nervous.

John attempts to ignore the smoulder and thinks.

***

Sherlock wants to see him in women’s underwear. _Sherlock_. Sherlock the Notoriously Sexless, who’d basically admitted to wanting to see him like that because it turned him on. John thinks and thinks and can only conclude he should just really stop considering himself all-the-way straight because if he’s honest, if he’s really blatantly honest with himself, he’s fantasised about this scenario a dozen times already. About Sherlock walking in on him, or deducing it, doing whatever he does, and then staring him down and maybe running those nice long fingers up John’s nylon-clad…

Well. Not so much thinking anymore, at that point. John hasn’t felt this embarrassingly awkward about having a wank since he was a teenager.

*** 

He already knows he’ll probably wind up saying yes and so does Sherlock, but it still takes him some more time to actually say it. Those things work that way. You can have worked up so much courage, but it still won’t properly translate into actual words automatically.

“Have you considered my proposal yet?” Sherlock asks him exactly a week later, fingers caressing the keys on his laptop but not quite typing.  
“I’ve not decided yet,” John says uncomfortably, sitting somewhat miserable in his chair by the fireplace.  
“I know you’re intrigued by the idea, you know.”

Sherlock clearly knows nothing, because John is so much more than intrigued. He isn’t entirely sure what happened to his sanity but he doesn’t think living with Sherlock Holmes is really so conducive to making well-reasoned decisions.

“Just once, John. Don’t be so shy. I won’t tell anyone. You’ll just be doing it for me.”

Those near exact words have been said to John like that before, and it’s the creepiest déjà vu he’s ever experienced. He stares dumbly at Sherlock who’s giving him that dark intense look again, and the room is very quiet. Even the city outside seems to be holding its breath (which is rare for London, a city that usually rattles lovingly in his ear like an asthmatic chain-smoker) but there’s this humming in John’s ears like the swelling musical score of some suspenseful film. 

It accompanies his thoughts racing, pros and cons, a whole list of reasons gathered the past week or so why this is the worst idea anyone has ever had that rattles itself off at lightning speed. The humming doesn’t go away until he’s made his decision, tossed all objections right out the window, and nodded a brisk yes, and Sherlock’s grinned him that half-grin he only seems to reserve for when John does something he genuinely _likes_. John fucking loves that grin, he really does.

So he bolts to his room, a tickle of adrenalin bursting through his veins, undresses faster than he’s ever done before and falls backwards onto his bed, naked and giggling, clutching a set of sheer black stockings and a pair of wine-coloured lace panties to his chest. He’s already half hard, which is ridiculous and stupid and embarrassing and oh God, what the hell is even _doing_. 

Sherlock wants to see him dressed like this? Fine. Sherlock was going to. With a grin John wriggles himself into the panties and starts rolling the fine stockings up his legs. He stands up from his bed, puts on his black suspender belt and carefully attaches the straps to his stockings. Snap, snap, snap, around his thighs, just the act alone thrills him, makes his blood pump faster. He supposes it’s just the idea of it – the army doctor, normally such a bastion of masculinity, standing there fastening his nylon thigh-high stockings to his satin suspender belt over his lace panties. He looks at himself in his mirror, and exhales slowly. 

If he doesn’t want to walk downstairs with a massive stiffy he might have to take a breather right there. Maybe think about that stupid chinchilla from before for a bit. Yeah, that’s doing the trick.

He digs into the back of his drawers and pulls out the corset. He hesitates for a moment – should he? Wouldn’t it be too silly, maybe? But really, if he’s going to do this, he might as well do it all the way. No one has ever seen him in it. He was single when he purchased it, and hasn’t dared to tell anyone about his secret little hobby since. It’s not the most comfortable item of clothing he’s ever wormed himself into, but he has to admit it looks… well.

He wraps it around his waist and starts to fasten it, from just below his breastbone down to just above his pubic bone. He reaches around and starts tightening the lace, carefully, just so, counting the beatings of his heart as he does. It’s difficult to do by himself, and honestly he doesn’t even really know if he’s doing this correctly, having fumbled it out for himself over the course of a couple months, but thinks it looks right enough as he observes himself in his mirror again. 

His face is bright red. Good God, John Watson, get a grip. 

He falters at the top of the stairs and feels suddenly ridiculous, the draught from downstairs curling up and around his stockinged feet. What if Sherlock just laughs. What if it’s some kind of prank he’s blindly falling for. What if he just looks stupid, short and stocky and ridiculous, and never meets whatever expectations Sherlock has. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

“Sherlock Holmes if you’re dicking with me so help me God I will make you regret you were ever even conceived,” he calls down the stairs, eyes still closed.  
“Just get down here already,” Sherlock calls back, and he sounds oddly pinched. Bit nervous, perhaps, the idea of which does wonders for John’s sudden stage fright.  
“Shut the curtains, would you. I’d hate for that nice Armenian feller across the street to get an eye-full,” he says, and he hears Sherlock pull the curtains shut so forcefully he wonders if they’ll still be on their rails when he walks in.

They are still on their rails, and very much shut. And Sherlock is standing by their table, white as a sheet, giving him an open-mouthed stare that sends those nerves rocketing right back up John’s spine. He fidgets, smoothes his hands down the front of his corset, shuffles his feet.

“Well?” he says, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock says nothing, merely looks him up and down in a way that makes it appear he’s about to eat him whole, then slowly starts to circle him.  
“You look…” is all he says as he moves, eyes roving up and down John’s body. “You should have shoes. That would really finish it. Heels.”  
“I’ve considered… you don’t think it would be too much?”  
“No. No, I think it would be… perfect.”

He’s circled completely around now, and is staring quite openly at John’s crotch. Okay. All right. John wills himself to keep breathing but all he manages to do is giggle nervously. He’s never really been under this kind of scrutiny before, and it’s painfully funny, really. Sherlock’s eyes shoot up to his face and he joins him, quietly, chuckling breathlessly. The chuckle then withers and fades and the intense stare returns, directed at John’s mouth now, and John can feel his face burn because he doesn’t think anyone in the world ever has looked at him like that, let alone Sherlock.

“You need… wait here,” Sherlock says and he’s actually literally running down the hall to his room.  
“Oh, well, just thought I’d pop down to the pub for a quick pint, actually,” John calls after him with a shrug and a gesture that attempts to say ‘you’re barking mad’ but Sherlock’s already gone. He comes running back holding, to John’s surprise, a thing of lipstick he pulls the cap off with a hollow, plastic pop. It’s a sort of plum colour, a reddish purple, and it’s been used before. John is about to ask on whom but Sherlock is moving as if to put it on him and he’s too shocked to even react. 

Sherlock notices the shock and hesitates. “May I…?“  
“Yeah. Yes. All right,” John says, and Sherlock’s already taken a hold of his chin and is rather meticulously applying the stuff to his lips.

It’s actually the first time John’s wearing lipstick that he didn’t wind up with through a voracious snogging session. It’s thick and sticky on his lips, not too comfortable, and he thinks it might actually be quite a cheap lipstick too, but Sherlock is being very precise, looking at him intently with pupils so dilated they’ve nearly drowned out the bright icy blue of his eyes, and John can hardly breathe with him so very close. 

He steps back with a nod, carelessly chucking the lipstick aside, and John turns to look at himself in the mirror over their fireplace.

Oh. _Oh_. That’s. Odd. Good, but odd. Too dark for him, though, and his lips are quite thin really, not so attractive to be honest, but it’s. Good. All right. He licks his lips, watches his cheeks turn a heated sort of pink, then turns and smiles at Sherlock but he doesn’t get to smile for long because next thing he knows Sherlock is kissing him.

He’s basically launched himself at John, fingertips on both sides of John’s face, and is kissing him with a sort of desperation John thinks he might drown in. He thrusts himself up, standing on his toes, throws his arms around Sherlock’s neck and gives as good as he’s getting. It’s genuinely all tongues and teeth, months of build-up John had barely noticed simmering inside him bursting out from between them, and Sherlock drops his hands and rather blatantly grabs John’s arse with both hands. John would’ve liked to stop that rather pitiful whimper from bubbling up his throat but alas. He fists one hand in Sherlock’s dark curly hair in a way he knows must hurt but genuinely can’t keep himself from doing, and Sherlock just bites on his lower lip and sort of growls. 

John stutters a nervous chitter against Sherlock’s teeth, pleased hysterics bubbling in his lungs. “You. You’re. Fuck, you kiss like you’re starving and I’m a buffet,” he says.  
“You do look good enough to eat,” Sherlock says, dragging his lips across John’s jaw and leaving a perfect purple blur of lipstick on stubbled skin. “I want to suck you. I want to fuck you. I want to penetrate you and desecrate you and leave you breathless. You. I want to do all those things to you.”  
“Oh God,” John says with a gulp and a gasp, clinging to Sherlock’s shirt. “I’m not. With a bloke, I’ve never. Have you? I thought you’d never. Oh Christ, I can’t even finish a sentence right now to save my life.”

“Most people think that. Most people are wrong,” Sherlock says and he licks wetly at John’s ear. “I’ve known about the lingerie for months, you know. Months I’ve been thinking about you in them.”  
“Why’d you never say anything before?”  
“As you’ve said before,” Sherlock whispers, tightening his grip on John’s arse and grinding them together almost painfully, “I’m an idiot.”  
John just sort of squeals and tries very hard not to think as Sherlock abruptly drops to his knees and presses a kiss to the exposed strip of skin of his thigh, right above the edge of his stockings. He runs those nice long fingers up John’s nylon-clad calves and smiles.

“This is why you shave your legs. Obvious.”  
“It feels nicer,” John says softly, staring down and wondering vaguely how he’s keeping his knees from buckling. “With the, with the fabric. Feels better on my skin.”  
“Beautiful. You’re perfect,” Sherlock mumbles and without so much as a moment’s hesitation just presses his face right into John’s crotch, John’s really very erect prick pressed right along his nose. He inhales deeply, and John feels this incredibly odd mixture of awkward and aroused.

Even Karen hadn’t reacted with such enthusiasm to seeing him all dressed up like this. John is being genuinely worshipped here, plain and simple, and it’s as flattering and thrilling as it’s a bit uncomfortable. He’s not even entirely sure this is all actually happening, because objectively speaking this is a fairly unlikely situation. But then, who can speak objectively when a very enthusiastic and attractive man is kissing your prick through the intricate lace of your pants?

Sherlock’s hands tremble on the outside of John’s thighs. John reaches and touches them, his fingertips connecting with Sherlock’s, and Sherlock reaches up a bit higher and entwines his fingers with John’s. He looks up at him, his cheek rubbing against the lace stretched across John’s cock. 

He’s done this before, John understands, but not often. He’s sitting on his knees at John’s feet, legs apart, submitting himself for the full hundred percent and John thinks he’d let him do anything he damn well wanted to. It’s a bit of an intimidating thought, but he’s trusted Sherlock with far more terrifying things than this. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock says, his voice dark and sure. “I want you to fuck me dressed like this. Beautiful like this, all dolled up, I want your cock inside of me.”  
What can John do with a question like that, other than to nod a dazed yes? 

Sherlock grins that damned half-grin of his again and lets go of John’s hands to tug on his panties, just enough to allow John’s cock to peep over the frilly edge. He kisses it, then sucks it right into his mouth and John considers maybe getting him some kind of award for that because oh, damn.

“If you’re serious about wanting me to fuck you, you may wish to stop that, otherwise it’s going to be a truly disappointingly brief experience,” he says, and Sherlock lets go and sits back on his haunches with the nastiest, cheekiest grin John has ever seen on his face. Without John even noticing it he’s gotten his own cock out too and is stroking himself lazily. He’s gorgeous like that, so open, and John has never wanted anyone as much in his life.

“Get up,” he mumbles and Sherlock obeys so willingly it’s actually a bit terrifying. Apparently the trick to getting the obstinate bastard to do what you want was to don a corset. He wonders if he should tell Mycroft. He chuckles to himself as he watches Sherlock drop his trousers and step out of them – no underwear, apparently, which doesn’t even surprise him – and scoot his arse up onto their table.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John says as he steps closer and takes a hold of him, hauling him close with one hand while he deftly unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt with the other.  
“Neither can I,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, wrapping his legs loosely around John's waist, one of his heels digging into John’s left buttock. “But I am quite pleased with it.”

He reaches and presses something into John’s hand, and John is more than a little shocked to realise it’s a condom.  
“You just happened to have this on you?”  
“Safety first, John.”  
“Well, that’s bloody convenient, isn’t it.”  
Not as convenient as the tube of jelly he’s also pulled out of nowhere, perhaps pilfered out of his bedroom earlier along with the lipstick. John stands back and fiddles with the condom wrapper, trying to readjust his world into one where Sherlock doesn’t just have lubricant but has a _half empty_ tube of it, and Sherlock deftly spreads a dollop of the stuff across two of his own fingers and just slides them up his arse like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be doing sat atop your dining table, and John just has to stop and observe that for a moment.

Sherlock’s breath falters as he sits there, perched between dirty tea mugs and stacks of paper, his legs drawn up with his heels on the edge of the table, slowly and deliberately fingering himself right in front of John. John has never known him to be anything but shameless, but this is a whole new level right there. John is oddly hypnotised by those long, slender fingers sliding in and out of him like that. 

“Do this often, do you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and manages to look exasperated even with his fingers up his arse and his painfully erect cock dripping precum into his belly button.  
“Just shut up and put the condom on already.” His voice is tense, cracking, and is hair is coming all sorts of undone and John tugs wildly at the wrapper until it tears. He nearly drops the slippery rubber twice, then finally manages to roll it on. He considers taking his panties off but that would also entail loosening his suspenders, and that’d be defeating the purpose a bit, wouldn’t it? So he merely tugs them down a bit, freeing his cock, and admires it for a moment jutting out from between dainty fabrics.  
“If you don’t get in here now I am going to scream,” Sherlock says tersely, and John giggles and steps closer, pressing his face against Sherlock’s collarbone and halting the movement of his hand by covering his wrist.

“Slow down, would you. This is all very new for me,” he says, smiling against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock trembles, an arrhythmic, unsteady sort of spasm wracking through him, arousal and excitement and probably buckets of adrenalin coursing through him just as much as they’re coursing through John.  
“Please,” he says softly, and he says it again, and John feels intensely victorious at that for reasons he’ll never speak out loud. “Please.”

John kisses him deeply, on those lovely lipstick-smeared lips, moves Sherlock’s hands around his shoulders, and with a slow, tentative thrust slides into him. Sherlock holds his breath, then lets it go in stuttery gasps across John’s lips, and John grabs him by the hips and starts to pump in and out of him. Slowly at first, trying it out, making it fit, then faster, and Sherlock’s genuinely the hottest, tightest thing he’s ever gotten to stick his cock into and he’s so perfect he could fucking cry. 

Sherlock’s hands are all over, first his shoulders, his upper arms, his chest, but they quickly focus on his outfit. Fingers clawing gently at his corset, the laces, the bone, the smooth fabric, then further down, grabbing John’s hips, fingertips sliding on the satin of his suspender belt. One of his feet slips off the table, on accident more than on purpose, and he hooks his leg around John’s bottom, calf sliding along the lace covering his buttocks.

Sherlock whimpers and manages to press his head against John’s shoulder, the limber fucker, as John thrusts so violently the table starts to bang an unmistakable rhythm against the wall. He prays Mrs. Hudson isn’t in, but remembers this is an outer wall and can only wonder if all of Baker Street can hear them going at it.

Sherlock’s pushed one of his hands between the two of them and is now feverishly jerking himself off, his fingers brushing against the fabric of John’s corset with every stroke, and John instantly stops caring about the neighbours. Sherlock gasps and whimpers, and cries out John’s name three times in a tone of voice that actually sort of suggest surprise and then ejaculates messily all over the front of John’s corset, his whole body going rigid with pleasure. 

John pulls him in closer, holds him more tightly, and thrusts swiftly and shallowly in and out of Sherlock’s spent body. It doesn’t take him long to get to orgasm at all and it seems to go on forever too, starting at the soles of his feet and the crown of his head and merging somewhere in the middle in a somewhat overwhelming burst of physical sensation. He thinks he might have cried out a bit, but he’s not sure. 

He clings to Sherlock, both of them breathing fast, Sherlock’s bare skin glowing with heat. He sighs deeply then moves back as Sherlock lets him go and slumps across the table, legs spread. He starts to giggle again as he’s tossing the condom in their waste paper basket. 

“You weird ball of surprises,” he says affectionately.  
“Allow me to point out that I’m not the one still wearing women’s underwear,” Sherlock counters lazily from where he’s laying across the table.  
“Well. True. This was. This was new.”  
“But good, though.” Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows and shoots him the most satisfied, debauched look John has ever seen.  
“Oh, yes. Very good. Christ.”

Sherlock sits up and hauls him in by his elbow, hugging him close against his naked chest, his shirt still on but hanging open from his skinny shoulders. “You really are beautiful,” he purrs, and John chuckles.  
“I have lipstick smeared all the way to my ear. I look a right wanker. So do you, by the way. Not your colour, this.” He wipes the pad of his thumb across Sherlock’s plush lower lip.  
“At least we match, then.” Sherlock’s hands wander and grab him by the arse again as he hums appreciatively.  
“You do know I’m fast approaching forty, right. It’ll take me a while to even be able to consider a round two.”  
“I have time.” 

That promises a right lot of things, and John’s never been so inspired to imagine the possibilities before.

“You should get silk stockings,” Sherlock muses, hands sliding down to John’s thighs. “Much nicer than nylon.”  
“Silk stockings, high heels. You’re going to bankrupt me, you and your kinkiness.”  
“Then I’ll buy them for you.”  
“Right. Well. Fine by me.”

Sherlock kisses him for that, a lazy kiss now, no longer the urgent desperation from before but a sated, comfortable meeting of mouths that are well aware that neither can get enough of the other. John feels amazing, actually, and can only wonder why it took him so long to get here.

“So. Any thoughts on how to get semen off a satin corset?”

***

Three weeks later they are walking towards a crime scene near South Harrow, Lestrade waving at them in the distance, as John gently elbows Sherlock in the side.

“Guess what I’m wearing underneath my jeans,” he says softly, privately.  
“Judging from your gait, I’d say nothing lace. The salmon-coloured satin ones?” Sherlock asks, a glint and a glimmer in his eye.  
“Nope. Something new. Got it just for you.” John grins and watches as Sherlock’s face flushes a wonderful shade of excited pink.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Silk Stockings and Lipstick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/616380) by [ladymac111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111)




End file.
